


Lightning Strike

by 64907



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: ninoexchange, Exhibitionism, M/M, Modeling, Multi, Photography, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11471841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/64907/pseuds/64907
Summary: To get the job that he needs, Nino enters into an arrangement with two models. One he knows from before, the other completely new to him.





	Lightning Strike

**Author's Note:**

  * For [koi_choshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koi_choshi/gifts).



> Written for this year's Nino Exchange.
> 
> I didn't tag it, but there's some past!Sakumoto that's referenced for like, three times in the story. It's nothing major, but just in case whoever reads this wants to be warned of everything beforehand, there you go.

Since the birth of his sister’s kid, Nino only cusses on three occasions if he can help it: when he’s on Pazudora and his phone battery gives up before he makes a combo, when his online teammates have ditched him during a promised gaming night, and when a part of his body hurts from spending too much time in front of his TV.  
  
But he cusses in surprise when he realizes who it is.  
  
“Shit,” he grumbles under his breath, blinking repeatedly. Thankfully, he’s seated on the floor of his studio since he’s tweaking with the screws of his tripod. “Fucking shit, no.”  
  
Just beyond the entrance of his studio, he can make out Sho having a friendly chat with his models for the coming months. If it were up to Nino, he’d never fork over the sum to hire models for such a long time, but Sho insisted they were getting a discount since one of the models is Sho’s kouhai from way back in high school.  
  
Not that Nino cared much; all that mattered to him was that Sho had found models that would give his portfolio the bump it needs for that senior photographer job that he wants, and that Sho’s paying for half of their talent fee.  
  
But now Nino  _does_  mind as he squints his eyes to check. He knows that laugh. That shrill, high-pitched, annoying laugh that only comes out when that guy’s been particularly tickled. Nino hates how he remembers so much.  
  
Sho ushers the models inside the studio, and Nino doesn’t miss the other one looking around. There are two of them, both of similar height, but while the face Nino refuses to look at is lively and accommodating, the other one has sharp features—high cheekbones and plush mouth, his thick, trimmed eyebrows drawn together as he examines Nino’s studio.  
  
It takes a while before eyebrows guy meets Nino’s eyes.  
  
“I wasn’t able to dust the ceiling,” Nino says. “Can’t reach it, and Sho-chan can’t, either.”  
  
Eyebrows guy lifts a long pale finger and points to the corner, where faint threads of cobwebs can be seen. “You have a spider in your studio.”  
  
“Better spiders than rats, Matsujun!” the guy Nino’s not looking at says, saving Nino from another remark. “Ninomiya Kazunari, I haven’t seen you in so long! When was it, senior high school?”  
  
“Junior high,” Nino corrects. He forces himself to smile, as genially as he can. “Aiba-san. You’re so much taller now.”  
  
That’s a lie; Aiba’s only a little taller. But it’s the only thing Nino can comment on that won’t distract him. Aiba Masaki has always been attractive, possessing bright eyes and a charming smile, but add a few years and he’s utterly handsome.  
  
It annoys Nino to no end. More so since he can’t show it.  
  
Aiba laughs, and Nino is careful not to meet Sho’s questioning looks. In all the years that he’s had Sho for an assistant, the topic of Nino’s childhood crush never came forth. But this is Sho, and while he is someone who might be less perceptive and observant than Nino, the disadvantage is that Sho has known Nino for long.  
  
Too long. There’s no mistaking the growing realization in Sho’s eyes.  
  
Nino ignores him.  
  
“This is my friend, Matsumoto Jun,” Aiba introduces, a casual arm thrown around eyebrows guy’s broad shoulders. Nino supposes he can no longer refer to him in that manner.  
  
“I know,” Nino says. Who doesn’t know of Matsumoto Jun? He’s been on the cover of fashion magazines since Nino began receiving recognition for his skills with a camera. Nino never thought that this guy would be Sho’s kouhai.  
  
His gaze flits to Sho’s, then back to Matsumoto’s. The guy is regarding him coolly, in contrast to Aiba’s familiarity.  
  
“A pleasure,” Matsumoto finally says, when it becomes evident to him that Nino wouldn’t extend his hand first. Nino shakes his hand respectfully and inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Aiba-chan didn’t tell me he’s friends with a renowned photographer.”  
  
“If I were renowned, I wouldn’t have asked for Aiba-san,” Nino says.  
  
Aiba is Aiba, and Nino gets proof of it when he laughs instead of feeling insulted. “Come now, Nino! We’re Soubusen buddies, remember?”  
  
Nino does, but Aiba doesn’t need to know that. He flashes Matsumoto a small smile. “I suppose Sho-chan told you what exactly we’re looking for?”  
  
“He did,” Matsumoto says.  
  
Nino nods and turns to look at Aiba, but he’s careful to just look at Aiba’s philtrum so as not to be distracted. “We won’t start today. Unless you both want to. Right now, I just want you guys to be familiar with my studio. Sho-chan can guide you if you want.”  
  
“You’re not joining us?” Aiba asks, and it’s phrased as an invite.  
  
Nino glances at his half-fixed tripod. “It’s my studio, Aiba-san. I know how it is from inside out.”  
  
“Nino’s busy,” Sho says, stepping in. “We understand that your schedules are packed, but Nino has to fix his favorite tripod so we can start tomorrow. I can show you Nino’s collection of photos if you’d like.”  
  
The invitation successfully leads both Aiba and Matsumoto away, but Sho throws him this look that tells Nino they’re going to have a long talk as soon as the two models are gone.  
  
Nino’s not looking forward to it.  
  
\--  
  
Hours pass. Nino methodically cleans the parts of his studio that don’t have visitors. He’s careful as he wipes the lenses, thorough as he polishes the legs of his tripod. He wants everything to be pristine by the time Aiba and Matsumoto come back.  
  
But he doesn’t remove that glistening thread of a spider’s web attached to his ceiling.  
  
The only signal Nino gets regarding their return is Sho’s hearty laughter. Sho is always so easily charmed, so quick to laugh. Nino knows when Sho’s being polite and just laughing to spare someone, but right now, he sounds totally amused.  
  
Him and Aiba, at that.  
  
It’s Matsumoto who crosses the threshold first, his eyes narrowing as he looks around. Nino catches him staring at the cobweb.  
  
Then his gaze falls on Nino. His eyes are brown, too brown. He has no makeup on, the skin of his face dotted with traces of puberty. It doesn’t make him any less handsome. Nino’s not surprised he’s an accomplished model despite the intimidating look brought by his eyebrows.  
  
“You tidied up,” Matsumoto comments. His glances at the ceiling. “Self-conscious all of a sudden?”  
  
“Nonsense,” Nino says. “I was trying to impress a model such as you.”  
  
“You missed a spot.”  
  
Nino almost smiles. “No, I didn’t.”  
  
Aiba then enters Nino’s view, and whatever he and Sho were laughing about, it’s over. Aiba looks around for a few seconds, turning his happy smile in Nino’s direction. “Sho-chan showed us the photos you shot in Berlin. They’re amazing, Nino. Are you sure don’t want to put them up in an exhibit?”  
  
“They’re not good enough,” Nino says. He’s been on that route before. It hadn’t worked.  
  
“They’re brilliant,” Aiba insists.  
  
“You’re very kind, Aiba-san.” As always. “I’m happy you enjoyed my gallery of unwanted shots.”  
  
Nino stiffens when Aiba moves towards him, more so when Aiba wraps an arm around his shoulders. “You’re too hard on yourself! Sho-chan bragged about them earlier, and he has good reason to. Even Matsujun was impressed.”  
  
“Was he,” Nino says. He sneaks a glance in Matsumoto’s direction, who meets his eyes calmly.  
  
“We all were,” Aiba tells him enthusiastically. “Now I’m really pumped up for tomorrow. If you can make tourists in Berlin look like they’re having the time of their lives, I’m sure you know what to do with us.”  
  
One of the things Nino can’t understand about Aiba is how Aiba can have complete faith in someone. That blind optimism of his hasn’t changed despite the years. It’s jarring when combined with those distracting looks.  
  
“We’ll see tomorrow,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage.  
  
The look in Sho’s eyes tells him he came up short.  
  
He shrugs Aiba’s arm off him, hands coming up to fix the collar of his shirt. “We’re shooting portraits. If you have any requests regarding the clothes, tell Sho-chan right away.”  
  
There’s a frown on Matsumoto’s face when Nino looks at him. “Sho-kun is the last person I’d ask for fashion advice,” Matsumoto says.  
  
Beside him, Sho bristles. “And I told you, Matsumoto-kun, the fake jeans are comfortable.”  
  
“Horrendous,” Matsumoto says. He looks at Nino again. “Tell me you have a stylist.”  
  
“She’s on vacation,” Nino says. It’s the truth. “Asami-chan is sunbathing in the Bahamas as we speak. Maybe.”  
  
“She’ll be back in a month,” Sho says, turning to Matsumoto with a smile. “I won’t make you wear camouflage, I promise.”  
  
Nino is enjoying the look of distrust on Matsumoto’s face, only because it keeps him from looking at Aiba’s. “If you have any requests,” he repeats to Matsumoto, “tell Sho-chan right away.”  
  
“Do you think I can wear purple bellbottoms?” Aiba asks.  
  
It surprises Nino, causing him to face Aiba. In his periphery, he doesn’t miss Matsumoto’s knowing grin.  
  
“What?” Aiba asks, innocently.  
  
“No,” Nino says flatly. He’s aware he’s missing something, an inside joke perhaps. Matsumoto’s still smiling. “We don’t have those.”  
  
“But I do,” Aiba says. “Can I bring them then?”  
  
“Why not?” Sho answers for Nino. “To ease your mind, Matsumoto-kun, how about we let you guys bring whatever you want to wear?”  
  
It makes Aiba smile, and now Nino looks away from him. Aiba’s eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles. He didn’t have those lines the last time Nino saw him. The years made him more appealing. “Thanks, Sho-chan.” Apparently their tour of the studio was enough for Aiba to become familiar with Sho. Nino can see that Sho doesn’t mind. “I’ll bring a suit just in case.”  
  
“We appreciate that,” Sho says. He turns to Matsumoto expectantly.  
  
Matsumoto has an eyebrow quirked. It’s the first time Nino has seen it, but it already feels like it belongs to the overlapping features of Matsumoto’s face. Like it completes the puzzle. “A suit. And a couple of sets of clothes.” He doesn’t look at Sho, but instead at Aiba. “I’d still want to see whatever this studio has in its collection.”  
  
“That can be arranged,” Nino says before Sho can. “Your agency forwarded your measurements to us. Are they updated?”  
  
“Matsujun did increase in chest circumference, I think,” Aiba says. He reaches down to tug at the edge of Matsumoto’s shirt, and to Nino’s surprise, Matsumoto lets him. Doing so exposes the undeniable muscle underneath the fabric. “See? He’s a gym addict.”  
  
“It’s called working out, not an addiction,” Matsumoto corrects. He directs it to Aiba, but he’s looking at Nino as if to ask: what?  
  
Aiba withdraws, seemingly oblivious to the exchange just now. “But it’s all the same for me. I think, if you guys just lay out all your stuff tomorrow, Matsujun and I can take our pick.”  
  
“And I can take mine,” Nino says. It earns him a narrowed look from Matsumoto, an amused one from Aiba, and an eye roll from Sho. He ignores the last one. “I’m your photographer, Aiba-san. I get the final word, don’t you think?”  
  
“Compromise,” Sho says, looking pointedly at him. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. It’s late.” He glances at his watch, an expensive thing he bought for himself in the midst of booking Aiba and Matsumoto. Whenever Sho gets stressed, he buys himself things. Things Nino would rather not have, the money sitting inside a bank account instead. “We’re supposed to close at five in the evening, and it’s almost six now.”  
  
Matsumoto steps forward, extending a hand to Nino. “A pleasure again, Ninomiya-san. I look forward to working with you.”  
  
Nino shakes his hand briefly. “Same here.” He hopes his palm isn’t clammy in case Aiba reaches out to shake it too.  
  
Instead, there’s a pair of arms that wrap around Nino’s form, startling him in place. He’d forgotten that Aiba was— _is_ —a hugger. “Nice to see you again, Nino.” His proximity makes the hair on Nino’s neck stand. Nino’s knees feel unstable. “I hope we can catch up.”  
  
Nino can only manage an awkward pat on Aiba’s shoulder. Aiba releases him and waves in goodbye, his smile as bright as the sun that just set. It’s infuriating.  
  
They move to leave, and once their voices carry further away, Nino sucks in a breath.  
  
He only gets a few moments to himself before Sho appears in his line of sight, leaning gracefully on the doorframe. Sho’s hardly graceful, except when he has to be a pain in the ass.  
  
“So,” Sho says knowingly.  
  
Nino gives him a look.  
  
“How long?” Sho asks. The teasing lilt to his voice is gone.  
  
Normally, Nino would keep his cards close. But this is Sho, and if Nino chooses to be truthful now, he might be able to coerce Sho into treating him to dinner.  
  
“I’ve known him for more than half of my life,” Nino admits. The other part goes unsaid.  
  
Sho says nothing, and Nino wonders if can convince Sho to let him smoke in here since the more difficult questions are bound to come any moment.  
  
“He has a nice smile,” Sho says in the end, unhelpfully.  
  
Nino glares at him. It makes Sho laugh.  
  
“Of course it was the smile,” Sho says, and  _now_  he’s teasing.  
  
Not the type to lose, Nino says, “Matsumoto Jun was your kouhai?”  
  
“My tutee,” Sho says.  
  
Nino frowns. He didn’t expect that answer, and Sho’s smirking.  
  
“You had to help him with his homework once,” Nino says. It’s hard to believe.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“That wasn’t a question, Sho-chan.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Sho takes one look at his face and laughs again. “He wasn’t this...big-time model before, you know? He was a cute kid.”  
  
Nino’s eyes narrow, then he smiles slowly. Sho’s grin falters at the sight of it. “How long did you guys go out?” he asks knowingly.  
  
He and Sho engage in a staring match.  
  
“For a while,” Sho responds as if it's a real answer.  
  
Nino draws back a bit, making a show on how he looks at Sho from head to foot and back up. “I didn’t peg you for someone who remains friends with his exes.”  
  
“He was a friend before we started going out. When we called it off, we decided to go back to how we were. Friends.”  
  
“He looks great,” Nino says. “Better than the cute kid struggling with his algebra, I bet.”  
  
“That’s not going to work,” Sho says dismissively, and Nino knows it to be true. Sho’s been trying to court the guy he goes fishing with for a while now. Once he has his eyes on something, it’s hard to convince him to give it up.  
  
Matsumoto might be attractive now and Sho might have been attracted then, but that was then.  
  
Nino waves his hand, the only indication of him yielding.  
  
It’s the wrong decision.  
  
“Do you think they’d agree to pose nude for you?” Sho asks.  
  
“You’re fired,” Nino says, convincing no one and earning him another one of Sho’s chuckles.  
  
\--  
  
The following morning has Nino adjusting lenses and lighting while he lets Sho handle Aiba and Matsumoto’s choice of clothing. He can hear their voices but can’t make sense of the conversation. Not that he’s interested.  
  
“You take good care of your cameras,” comes a voice that makes Nino jump. It’s followed by an amused, airy laugh. “You’re still so easy to startle.”  
  
“If you know that, don’t do it again,” Nino says to Aiba.  
  
“But it’s funny,” Aiba says, approaching him. Nino supposes that “funny” counts as an appropriate excuse for Aiba.  
  
“Done with making your choices?” Nino asks when Aiba’s close enough. He wills his fingers not to tremble as he fixes his camera lenses. “I know we don’t have a lot of clothes to offer since we’re not really a studio that caters to fashion magazines.”  
  
“I’m not Matsujun,” Aiba tells him with one of his dazzling smiles. “I left him and Sho-chan arguing there about shoes.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Nino proceeds with his work in an attempt to hide how aware he is of Aiba. Aiba smells good, like he just came out of the shower and put on minimal cologne. His hair is black and perfect in the short time Nino allowed himself to look, and he’s got this cool demeanor to him that can be threatening if taken lightly.  
  
If Nino had the inclinations to be honest, he’d say he’s threatened.  
  
They remain silent. Nino focuses on his work (or at least attempts to) while Aiba looks around, not touching anything. He’s lingering at the backdrop, looking up at the contraption that keeps it fastened to the wall.  
  
“What did you have in mind about our portraits?” Aiba asks eventually.  
  
“I thought I could start with solos,” Nino says. He can be professional when necessary. “At least until the both of you are comfortable with me seeing you behind the lens.”  
  
Aiba turns to him. “You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
Nino blinks. “I did.”  
  
“I asked what you had in mind about our portraits.”  
  
Nino halts what he’s doing so as not to appear affected. Aiba wasn’t talking about his plans for today. He was asking for Nino’s opinion of their portraits. The ones Sho forwarded to Nino’s email the night before. It might have been Aiba who sent them to Sho.  
  
“They’re good,” Nino says truthfully.  
  
Aiba only looks at him.  
  
“And yet,” he starts. It causes Aiba to flash him a knowing smile. “I think I can do better.”  
  
“I think you can,” Aiba says, more confident than Nino will ever be. It’s admirable. Aiba pulls his gaze away to look past Nino. “Well? Have you picked your shoes?”  
  
Nino doesn’t have to turn to know that Matsumoto has entered the studio. His perfume gives it away. While Aiba’s is a fresh scent that reminds Nino of a spring day transitioning to summer, Matsumoto’s gives him a whiff of the ocean. It suits him—fierce and untameable.  
  
“Sho-kun said we wouldn’t need them,” Matsumoto says. “I came to confirm it with Ninomiya-san.”  
  
“Nino. Only my landlady calls me Ninomiya-san.”  
  
Matsumoto only nods and waits.  
  
“You don’t need them,” Nino tells him.  
  
“And you wasted five minutes being so meticulous about it,” Aiba remarks with a laugh. “Come now, Matsujun. Let’s go get dressed.”  
  
Nino watches them go, their scents leaving with him and complementing one another.  
  
\--  
  
He starts with Aiba.  
  
Aiba’s dress shirt has its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing an attractive tan that needs adjustments to their lighting in order to emphasize. Nino wants to see everything behind the lens, and he wants whoever views his photos to  _see_  Aiba, despite not having met him.  
  
To achieve that, he tells Sho what to do.  
  
Sho is an all-around assistant, knowledgeable with negotiations and adjustments. Only fashion eludes him, as Matsumoto stated. He follows Nino’s instructions until Nino lifts a hand.  
  
He peers in the viewfinder, telling Aiba to relax.  
  
“What do you want to show?” he hears Matsumoto ask from somewhere behind him.  
  
“Him,” Nino says, and nothing more. He takes the first shot, white light robbing him of his view momentarily, like a crack of lightning during a raging storm.  
  
“Will you also give me the same instructions?” Matsumoto asks curiously, his eyes now on the monitor. Reflected on his irises is Aiba’s first photograph of the day.  
  
“No,” Nino says, and takes his second one after Aiba shifts in his seat, a slight change in his posture.  
  
“You’re not really telling him what to do,” Matsumoto observes.  
  
“No,” Nino says again, pressing the shutter for the third one. He takes a look at each on the monitor. Then he faces Aiba again. “Breathe.”  
  
Aiba’s eyes narrow. Nino can feel the weight of Matsumoto’s skeptical gaze on him.  
  
Then Aiba shifts once more, his posture more loose, his eyes playful but calm. His mouth is upturned in a would-be smile, some of his hair falling over his eyes. Later, Nino will thank his makeup artist for choosing to apply minimal coloring on Aiba’s face.  
  
Aiba looks not at the camera but  _at_  Nino, and Nino takes the shot.  
  
He can see Matsumoto examining the latest photo, some of his doubts vanishing from his expressive face. When their gazes meet, Nino tries not to smile.  
  
“I was just getting started,” he says.  
  
\--  
  
Aiba is beautiful. Nino doesn’t need to stand behind a camera to see that. He’s photogenic, and each shot Nino takes of him is better than its predecessor. He’s given Aiba one-word instructions, has allowed him to interpret those in his way, and Aiba’s response shows his experience. He adapts to Nino’s style quickly, becoming more like the Aiba Nino knows from his youth coupled with Aiba Masaki, the accomplished model behind his camera.  
  
Each press of the shutter does away with the years they spent not being acquainted, vanishing to oblivion.  
  
Nino can see him.  
  
He wants to transmit what he’s seeing into prints that people can admire. He only feels like this when he’s behind a camera. Through it, he can see and not be seen.  
  
When he calls for a change of clothes, Aiba gets off the stool without another word. Nino faces the computer and tinkers with the shots, deleting those that he finds to be unsatisfactory. Photogenicity can only do so much. The rest relies on Nino’s skills, on his ability to transmit what he’s seeing.  
  
When Aiba returns, he’s lost the shirt. Nino stares at where the tan of his arm ends to adapt a darker shade, an almost-magenta of irregular edges. A wine-colored pangaea.  
  
He’d forgotten that it’s there.  
  
“I asked for a change of clothes,” Nino says when he’s regained his voice.  
  
“Sho-chan is bringing the tank top,” Aiba says with a small smile.  
  
“Is he.”  
  
Sho walks past him, carrying the top and handing it to Aiba, who slips it over his head. His arms and shoulders move accordingly to accomplish the task, a captivating assembly of bones and muscle.  
  
Nino peeks through his viewfinder. The limitation of a camera is that Nino can witness perfection unfold from behind it, but if he’s a second too late, the moment is gone. His fingers itch for the shutter as Aiba extends his neck, as his hands smooth over the shirt.  
  
“Ready?” Nino asks.  
  
“Whenever you are,” Aiba says.  
  
Nino has switched to black and white, which is his main purpose for this arrangement. A series of portraits that are all devoid of color to showcase his skills. He tells Aiba to straighten his back and angle his neck towards the right.  
  
“Put your hand on your arm,” he says finally, a punctuation to the pose.  
  
Aiba does. “Like this?” Tanned fingers dance over his birthmark, nails resting on the edges.  
  
Nino can feel Matsumoto’s stare on him; the man is in his periphery and never disappearing.  
  
“Exactly like that,” Nino says, and he presses the shutter.  
  
They continue for an hour or two. Nino gives directives, Aiba assumes most of what Nino wants, unless he has something in mind that can make it better. They experiment together with their limitations and compensate for that by meeting in the middle. It’s familiar and soothing, but Nino feels out of control each time he gets rewarded with one of Aiba’s smiles.  
  
They finish with a final shot of Aiba’s fingers resting between the dip formed by his collarbones. The photo is from Aiba’s chest above, and the darker gray area of his birthmark is enough to take Nino’s attention at the moment while he examines the results.  
  
Behind him, he hears Sho telling Matsumoto to get ready.  
  
The casual way that Aiba’s elbow leans into his shoulder surprises him, nearly making him jump in place. Aiba doesn’t embarrass him further by remarking on it; his eyes are focused on the photos Nino took of him.  
  
“Where’s the one in which you told me to breathe?” Aiba asks curiously.  
  
Nino clicks the photo in question. It’s one of the test shots, a colored photo that’s the first of Aiba’s relaxed beauty. Nino turns his attention to the details to distract himself: the curve of Aiba’s mouth, the proud angle of his jaw.  
  
“It’s a good photo,” Aiba says.  
  
His statement reminds Nino of a Greek myth. Not Narcissus, despite the closeness to it. Nino looks at Aiba’s face on the monitor, the even column of his neck. He thinks of blood and nectar.  
  
“It is,” Nino acknowledges. “But it’s not your best.”  
  
He can tell that Aiba’s smiling without looking at him. “No, it’s not.”  
  
Nino picks up his camera and Aiba moves off him. Lifting his head reveals Matsumoto, perched on the same stool but so vastly different from its previous occupant. If Aiba is skin and long bones, Matsumoto is marble and limestone. The change in skin color from earlier gives Nino a few ideas. Such paleness would be further highlighted once he switches to black and white.  
  
“We’ll do test shots first,” he says to Matsumoto as he mounts his camera on the tripod, making a few adjustments to its height.  
  
“Are you also going to tell me to breathe?” Matsumoto asks. His tongue is as sharp as he looks.  
  
“No,” Nino says truthfully. It earns him a small furrow between thick eyebrows. “I’m going to tell you the opposite: hold your breath.”  
  
“A swimming lesson?” Matsumoto has an eyebrow curved now.  
  
“Close,” Nino says. “I’m treading blindly here, Matsumoto-san. I know how to instruct Aiba-san because we’re acquainted with one another. But I don’t know you yet aside from your profile that your agency forwarded to me.”  
  
Matsumoto regards him. “And if I hold my breath before you take your photo, what’s next?”  
  
“Let go,” Nino says, “and trust me.”  
  
Matsumoto’s gaze drifts from him, landing on something behind him. Belatedly, Nino realizes it’s not a something, but a someone.  
  
The only agreement Nino receives is a tilt of the head.  
  
They begin.  
  
\--  
  
There’s a stiffness to Matsumoto that adds to his attractiveness. It’s a contradiction that Nino sees for himself, unfolding slowly behind his lens. He files it as a privilege, an opportunity. Aiba carries himself so gracefully and freely. Matsumoto does neither.  
  
He sits in the center of Nino’s studio, all sharp angles that hardly blend together and yet remain proportional. He follows instructions not as Aiba would—not to the best of his ability, but to the best of his interpretation of it. He studies Nino’s face as much as Nino studies his. There’s always a camera between them, but through it comes an understanding: Nino is not the only one looking through it in search of something.  
  
“Look into the camera,” Nino says.  
  
Matsumoto does. Cool brown meets smooth glass and further accentuate a striking difference between Matsumoto and Aiba: Aiba looks  _at_  Nino.  
  
Matsumoto looks at where Nino asks him to. He takes no liberties.  
  
But it doesn’t make him any less daring. When Nino asks for a certain view, he gives more. Nino asks him to touch the sides of his mouth, and he does, his lips parting slightly without being told to.  
  
Nino takes the shot then.  
  
He allows a fleeting glance at his monitor before he calls for a change of clothes. Matsumoto stands, straight and proud. He exchanges a look with Aiba before he disappears into the back.  
  
Nino starts his selection for the day. He deletes the ones that feel too stereotypical and predictable. He leaves the ones he might print and ponder over. Aiba is somewhere behind him, looking at the shots intently. Nino waits for him to break his silence.  
  
“Matsujun really has a small face,” is all Aiba says. It’s not too far from what Nino expected.  
  
“He does,” Nino acknowledges.  
  
“His shoulders make his face look smaller. He wasn’t so broad before. Even Sho-chan said so.”  
  
Nino looks at Aiba, dissecting the words in his head. “You  _knew_. You knew that he and Sho-chan were once together.”  
  
“Matsujun refers to Sho-chan as his ex or his senpai interchangeably when we’re alone.” Aiba’s grinning now. “It took a while to get him to talk, but he eventually told me.”  
  
“When you’re alone,” Nino repeats.  
  
Aiba gives him a look that’s partially amused and partially surprised. “Why, Nino, did you think otherwise?”  
  
Nino turns to his computer. It makes sense now—the frequent exchange of looks, the easy-going closeness, the wordless consultations. Matsumoto only needs to look at Aiba to make up his mind, and Aiba does the same.  
  
“It’s not exclusive,” Aiba says quietly.  
  
Nino can’t fathom why Aiba thinks he needs to know that. “What?”  
  
“It’s not. We have an understanding. He’s not as strict as he looks.”  
  
Nino is saved from replying at the sounds of Matsumoto’s footsteps. He is followed by Sho, who’s carrying a scarf. Sho raises the scarf to Nino, throwing an incredulous look at Matsumoto, and then he shakes the scarf in his hand as if to ask for Nino’s help.  
  
“You don’t need the scarf,” Nino says, and Sho sighs visibly.  
  
The corner of Matsumoto’s mouth is quirked. “I just wanted Sho-kun to bring that.”  
  
“You’re so annoying,” Sho complains, but he clearly doesn’t mean it. He balls the scarf in his hands and tosses it to the nearest chair. “Nino, next time you tell him to hold his breath, don’t ask him to release it. Ever.”  
  
Matsumoto smirks triumphantly, and Nino just shakes his head. Sho can be overly dramatic at times, but that only endears him to Nino.  
  
Nino gestures to the stool and Matsumoto takes a seat. The change in outfit has him in a black v-neck, a shirt that fits him too nicely. Aiba wasn’t exaggerating about Matsumoto’s build. His shoulders appear sturdy, the muscles of his chest prominent under the dark fabric. Nino wonders how he’ll be able to show that in a black and white photo, that underneath the clothes is a body that the sculptors of ancient times often imitated.  
  
“Relax your shoulders,” Nino says, positioning himself behind his camera. Matsumoto does, and doing so has him looking comfortable but not vulnerable. It draws attention.  
  
It’s not exclusive, Aiba told him. He can’t stop thinking about it.  
  
Nino takes the shot. He waves his hand to give Matsumoto the freedom to assume whatever pose he wants, and Matsumoto lifts his fingers over his mouth, a fingertip resting on the mark that’s close to his chin. One of these days, Nino thinks he might ask Aiba and Matsumoto to pose with their side profiles exposed to him, just to compare how vastly different they are but still alluring in their own special way.  
  
It’s easy to find a rhythm after that. With Matsumoto’s comfort (evident thanks to the reassuring looks Nino catches Aiba throwing at Matsumoto) comes his confidence. Each shot is akin to a dance step, a lift of the foot or a snap of fingers, a sashay of hips. Nino feels as if he and Matsumoto are in a lion’s den, circling each other, appraising. He’s impressed with what he sees.  
  
Later that night, Nino will think about what Aiba said to him and what Matsumoto thinks of him. It will make him lose sleep, and he’ll spend hours waiting for dawn with his camera in his hands. He’ll think of Adonis and Aphrodite and Persephone, and wonder if there could have been another way for that myth to have played out.  
  
\--  
  
The duration of the arrangement is two months at most. It takes Aiba and Matsumoto a week before they decide for themselves that they know their way around Nino so that Sho doesn’t have to stick around that much. The relief is obvious in Sho—he’s Nino’s all-around assistant, and there are matters he hadn’t been able to address since the start of the arrangement.  
  
Sho’s disappearance also means that Nino’s on his own now, navigating his way between two models who know how they look and how to project it. It makes Nino’s job easier and harder at the same time.  
  
Two weeks is the time it takes for Nino to be at peace with his awakened attraction to Aiba Masaki. It’s the longest he’s lasted. In his defense, Aiba doesn’t make it difficult for anyone to fall for him. It’s in everything he does, and his smile is just the trigger for everything else to fall into place. To Nino, it’s as if his feelings for Aiba hadn’t disappeared at all—they’d just been buried and ignored until he believed they were nonexistent.  
  
But Nino can be professional. He sets aside his unwavering attraction to Aiba when Aiba’s posing for him, doing what he says or making compromises. He does his job and Aiba does his, and they quickly fall into a rhythm that used to exist between them. It’s like reopening an old diary. Nino’s inwardly cringing at the extent of his attraction, but he’s also entertaining it because doing otherwise is counterproductive to his work.  
  
Or at least, that’s what he tells himself in the mirror every time he’s about to head to his studio.  
  
While Nino can rationalize “the Aiba matter” with himself, Matsumoto is a different case. He calls it “that other one” because he’s new to it. Unaccustomed as the day he first attempted to assemble a tripod and got yelled at for it, in his days as an aspiring photographer, interning for his first studio.  
  
There’s nothing odd about being attracted to someone like Matsumoto Jun. That part, Nino can digest without much thought. The guy is serious and hardworking. He’ll never be as carefree and optimistic as Aiba, but his pragmatism only makes Nino more curious about him.  
  
If Nino approaches his attraction to Aiba in a straightforward manner, his attraction to Matsumoto is nothing like it. It’s convoluted and complicated; a portion of it is curiosity. What makes him tick? Why is he seemingly uptight only to laugh with his mouth wide open at Aiba’s silly gags? Why does he suppress a smile in front of everyone but doesn’t when he thinks nobody’s looking?  
  
It’s raining that morning, and Nino’s just thinking of asking Aiba and Matsumoto to put on trench coats for the next batch of shots. Nino enters his studio looking dark and quiet—Sho is visiting his relatives in Gunma and asked for the day off.  
  
It’s strange that he gets here first. He enters the studio proper and begins preparations, intending to start the day right. He cleans his tools and boots up the computer, reviewing yesterday’s shots. He has a stack of prints in the darkroom: of Matsumoto’s piercing gaze and Aiba’s captivating smile. With the two of them, it’s difficult to settle for just a couple of shots.  
  
Nino hears a creak in the backroom that makes him freeze, turning his head slowly toward it. It houses the clothes they have for models and also functions as a dressing room since Nino is all about economizing. He stands and cautiously makes his way to it. To his knowledge, there are no inhabitant ghosts in his studio, and this isn’t the first time that any of the models have arrived before he did.  
  
The door is ajar, and Nino is about to open his mouth to call for Aiba when he stops in his tracks.  
  
Beyond the gap is indeed Aiba, but he’s crowding Matsumoto against the dresser that Matsumoto’s half sitting on. Aiba’s hands are moving with purpose, mouth pressed against Matsumoto’s throat. Matsumoto has his head thrown back, eyelashes touching his cheeks.  
  
“Masaki,” Nino hears, spilling freely out of Matsumoto’s mouth. Nino has never heard him sound so needy before.  
  
“What is it?” Aiba asks, and Nino sees him lick a path from Matsumoto’s collarbone to his pulse.  
  
“Hurry.” The urgency is obvious, the want even more so. Nino wonders if he should be seeing this—this is clearly meant to be something private—but he can’t look nor walk away.  
  
He can’t move.  
  
Pale hands are gripping Aiba’s biceps tight, but it’s as if Matsumoto knows the right amount of pressure Aiba’s skin can tolerate for bruises not to appear. Aiba’s hand drifts lower, and Nino can’t see much with Aiba’s body obscuring what he’s doing, trapped in between Matsumoto’s thighs.  
  
But it soon becomes obvious. Aiba builds up a rhythm, hand alternating between fast and slow and clearly driving Matsumoto mad. While Nino can’t see Aiba’s face, he can see Matsumoto’s: the unguarded desire, the undeniable pleasure, the need. They’ll probably make a mess, but Nino can’t find it in him to worry about it. He can’t tear his eyes away.  
  
“Do you think of him doing this to you?” Aiba asks suddenly. It catches Nino by surprise.  
  
Matsumoto nods, and Nino’s lungs feel small, like he’s submerged and his breath won’t last for long. He’s never seen Matsumoto so out of control before, so willing.  
  
“I didn’t catch that,” Aiba says. The airy, happy lilt of his voice is gone, instead replaced by a lower pitch that Nino can feel run up his spine. Aiba might as well have said it to him.  
  
“Yes,” Matsumoto says, breathless. His teeth catch on his lower lip. “And you.”  
  
“What?” Aiba pulls back a bit, hand stopping, and Nino sees Matsumoto’s pale one close over Aiba’s, guiding him how to move again. He must be so close.  
  
Aiba relents, not holding back and moving with purpose. His eyes search Matsumoto’s, and Nino sees the moment Matsumoto’s eyes snap open, mouth parted in pleasure.  
  
“I want you both,” Matsumoto says, and it ends in a groan, his body collapsing forward against Aiba’s.  
  
Aiba holds him through it, then he turns, eyes locking with Nino’s.  
  
Nino feels trapped. It’s like the lion’s den all over again, except he’s the prey.  
  
“Sorry,” is the first word out of Aiba’s mouth. It causes Matsumoto to lift his head, resting his temple on Aiba’s shoulder as he looks at Nino too. “Are we late? Without Sho-chan to text us a reminder, we can’t tell.”  
  
“No,” Nino says, and it comes out as a croak. He swallows and tries again. “No—you’re...we’re still on schedule.”  
  
Matsumoto grabs a box of tissues and Aiba wipes his hand, not bothering to hide what they’ve done. Nino can feel his face burning. Aiba approaches the door and opens it wide, and Nino gets a flash of Matsumoto’s boxers as the man fixes himself.  
  
Aiba’s looking at him and smiling when Nino turns to him.  
  
“We’ll be out in a bit. Sorry for the delay.”  
  
Nino nods, and with effort, he spins on his heel and walks away.  
  
Belatedly, Nino realizes that Aiba never apologized for what he saw them do.  
  
\--  
  
Nino sticks to professionalism, but Matsumoto is the one he can’t predict. He runs some test shots on both of them, but looking at Aiba through the camera reminds him of Aiba’s steadfast determination in the backroom earlier. Matsumoto’s constant presence is somewhere behind him, and that, too, reminds Nino of the absence of control that he saw.  
  
I want you both, Matsumoto said.  
  
He can’t focus. The words play in his head over and over like an overused symphony. The almost gasping way Matsumoto uttered it, a vulnerability that Matsumoto didn’t mind one bit.  
  
If Aiba’s the one, then who’s the other?  
  
“Nino?” Aiba asks.  
  
Nino lets out a breath, a sweeping exhale that fogs his viewfinder momentarily.  
  
“I need a break,” he says.  
  
He leaves the studio and fishes for his cigarettes inside his pockets, lighting one with unsteady fingers.  
  
The first drag does nothing but remind him.  
  
I want you both.  
  
\--  
  
He ends up dismissing both Aiba and Matsumoto after his smoke break, claiming he has a couple of portraits he’s considering printing, and they’ll resume tomorrow.  
  
Tomorrow, Sho will be back, and Nino won’t feel so trapped anymore.  
  
He gathers his things as soon as the pair leaves, and instead of heading back home, he goes to an izakaya run by a guy named Ohno.  
  
“You look ugly,” is Ohno’s welcome for him. He’s always been rude, and it’s why Nino considers Ohno as his friend.  
  
“I’ll have whatever you caught over the weekend,” Nino says instead. “Three slices, nothing more.”  
  
Ohno says nothing and gets to work, but he doesn’t forget to push a can of beer into Nino’s hands. The rain meant that fewer people visited the izakaya, and Nino has the illusion of privacy since the downpour doesn’t look like it’ll let up anytime soon.  
  
When Ohno slides a plate of sashimi in Nino’s direction and rests his chin on his knuckles, Nino starts talking. The thing about Ohno is that the man listens. If you want answers and sound advice, you go to Sho. If you want no judgment and just an ear or none at all, you visit Ohno.  
  
Nino finishes talking when his beer can is empty and Ohno wordlessly hands over another one. Nino doesn’t disclose what he saw today in his studio, just that it’s something private.  
  
Ohno looks disappointed when Nino turns to him, his nose scrunched and a frown on his face.  
  
“What?” Nino asks, which is perhaps not his best idea today.  
  
“You didn’t join them?” Ohno asks.  
  
Nino almost throws the can of beer at him. “I can’t believe you.” Then he backtracks. “On second thought, that’s totally something only you would say.”  
  
“The ice caps are melting,” is what Ohno says instead.  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“The world will flood, and we’ll all drown because our country is an earthquake magnet, and you didn’t join in.”  
  
Nino points to Ohno with his chopsticks in an accusatory manner. “Don’t ever participate in an environmental movement. You suck.”  
  
“Not as much as you do. You obviously like them both—”  
  
“Keep it down,” Nino hisses.  
  
Ohno ignores him. “—and do you really think they didn’t notice you standing there?”  
  
“Semi-public sex is a kink.”  
  
Ohno levels him with a look. “As is voyeurism.”  
  
Nino straightens in his seat. “Okay.” They’re done exchanging pleasantries in the usual way. There’s no judgment in Ohno’s tone, just him pointing out whatever he thinks Nino is too stupid to understand. “What are you getting at?”  
  
Ohno locks his elbows and leans closer. “If you like them, go bed them.”  
  
“Straightforward and crude as always, Ohno-san,” Nino says.  
  
“You don’t come here for my sashimi.”  
  
Nino will have to give that to Ohno. “True.”  
  
“What’s stopping you?” Ohno asks. “You’ve had your share of one night stands.”  
  
“That’s what stopping me,” Nino says.  
  
Ohno only tilts his head in question. “That it’ll be just like scratching an itch? That’s exactly the point of sleeping with them if you like them enough that it bothers you so much. Treat it like a one night stand. Or two. Three. Depending on your stamina.” Ohno gives him a look like he’s appraising Nino’s capabilities. “Four would be too much, I think.”  
  
Nino rolls his eyes. Ohno is such an asshole in times like this, but it’s why Nino needs to talk to him. Ohno is one of the most carefree people he knows—a living example of  _ichigo ichie_.  
  
“What’s stopping me is that what if it’s not just a one time thing?” is all Nino says.  
  
“Ah,” Ohno says knowingly. Nino hates his self-satisfied expression. “You’re scared.”  
  
“I’ve never done this before,” Nino admits quietly. He’s nowhere close enough to drunk to say it out loud.  
  
“From what you told me, person number one is the crush material, and person number two is the fuck material,” Ohno says. Nino wants to staple his hand to his face so he can facepalm for eternity. “And now you just told me you never liked two people at the same time before.”  
  
“I have a type, okay?”  
  
“We all do,” Ohno says. “Crush material is your type.”  
  
Ohno sounds so certain of his deductions that Nino wants to hit him. Or give him a pair of glasses and a locked room mystery like that drama Nino once watched but had to stop because of the tarantula episode.  
  
“Fuck material is the outlier,” Ohno continues, oblivious to Nino’s plots of murdering him after closing hours. “He’s not your type, so you’re wondering if you like him because of crush material or if you just really like him in the same way that you simply like crush material.” Ohno smiles. “Am I wrong?”  
  
He’s not, but Nino can’t tell him that. Ohno won’t allow him to live it down. “Do you have any suggestions or can we just end this conversation with my usual ‘your sashimi is shitty’ comment before I tip you graciously?”  
  
Ohno scratches his cheek. “Sho-kun isn’t here to listen to these things?”  
  
“We’re not talking about your type, Ohno-san,” Nino says.  
  
That makes Ohno smile, and Nino wants to puke at him. But Ohno and Sho look genuinely happy with all the flirting they seem to do on their fishing trips, and while Nino’s revolted, he’s also enough of a sap to be happy for his friends.  
  
“The point,” Nino says as a reminder, glaring at Ohno.  
  
“I forgot what I was saying,” Ohno says.  
  
Nino sighs. He’s not surprised. “Why do I even come here?” he asks himself.  
  
“Bang them,” Ohno says suddenly. Nino nearly puts a chopstick through him. “That’s the only way to find out.”  
  
“Essentially, you’re telling me to use my dick to think,” Nino says, unamused.  
  
Ohno doesn’t look away from him. “The ice caps, Nino.”  
  
Nino pinches his nasal bridge. “Do you and Sho-chan have your own variation of ‘Netflix and chill’? What is it? ‘Discovery Channel and chill’? ‘NatGeo and chill’?”  
  
“I’m trying to give you advice,” Ohno says, smiling.  
  
“I wasn’t asking for it!” Nino almost hisses.  
  
“Oh,” Ohno says, shrugging. “Well, you listened to it anyway.” He grabs Nino’s empty plate and can of beer, extending his other hand out. “We’re closing. That’ll be 1,250 yen.”  
  
Nino curses him, but he hands out 2,000 yen and tells Ohno to keep the change.  
  
\--  
  
He’s in the darkroom and checking his prints of Aiba’s shots when a knock on the door reveals Matsumoto.  
  
Nino welcomes him in, but tells him not to touch anything. As a response, Matsumoto raises both hands.  
  
Nino goes back to work, lifting a closeup of Aiba’s face, the focus on the steep angle of his nose. He’s incredibly gorgeous, more so in photos devoid of color.  
  
“What are you looking for?” Matsumoto asks, cutting through the silence. In the time Nino has known him, he’s never done anything else. His features stand out, disrupting an otherwise soothing motif.  
  
“The right photo,” Nino answers simply.  
  
“I see.”  
  
“Is Aiba-san impatient? Is that why you’re here?”  
  
Nino catches Matsumoto tilting his head in his periphery. “Aiba-chan doesn’t know I’m here.”  
  
Nino puts down the photograph he’s holding and straightens, meets Matsumoto’s cool gaze on him. “What are you looking for?”  
  
“A reason,” Matsumoto replies smoothly. Too smooth; his voice hints at something. “You saw everything. You heard everything.”  
  
“And?” Nino wets his lips. “Do you want an apology?”  
  
“The last thing I want you to do, Nino,” Matsumoto begins, stepping closer, “is to apologize.” He stands before Nino, and he’s so tall and broad and handsome that Nino doesn’t know where to look. “Masaki told you already.”  
  
“Told me what?” Getting those words out is difficult.  
  
“Everything. That we’re not exclusive, that we’re—”  
  
“I’ve never seen you so out of control before,” Nino blurts out, and it makes his face burn. It’s kept him awake all night, and combined with Ohno’s unhelpful advice, it took all of what he’s got to not jerk off twice in one night.  
  
“Who said I wasn’t?” Matsumoto asks.  
  
Nino looks up at him. “Were you putting on a show?”  
  
“If you think that wasn’t a calculated risk on my part, it was. We knew you were coming.”  
  
“So you just wanted to see if you can scandalize me?”  
  
Matsumoto tilts his head. “You don’t look scandalized.” He takes another step. “If anything, you appear...interested. Like always. Just more, now that you’ve seen what he can do.”  
  
“He?” Nino asks despite knowing.  
  
Matsumoto simply nods. “That’s what he can do, Nino. It’s addicting sometimes. But I wasn’t lying then. He asked for the truth, and so I gave it.”  
  
“What?” Nino asks, but he knows. He knows.  
  
“I do want you both,” Matsumoto whispers; he’s too close. Nino can smell the smoke on his breath and the light hint of a mint chewing gum. One of Matsumoto’s ringed hands hovers over Nino’s mouth, and Nino tenses like a bowstring plucked. Anything more and he’ll snap. “But only if you do, too.”  
  
Matsumoto draws back, looks around and picks up a photograph. “Everyone in fashion—from writers to photographers to editors—always called Masaki photogenic,” he says conversationally, but Nino can see the strain in his neck muscles—Nino’s not the only one holding back. “For me, it’s the lines surrounding his eyes that does the trick. Adds to the charm. But they photoshop it out sometimes.”  
  
He hands Nino the photo, their fingers deliberately brushing.  
  
Matsumoto leaves, an aftertaste of a phantom touch lingering on Nino’s mouth when he moistens his lips.  
  
\--  
  
The day’s shoot progresses like Matsumoto didn’t intrude in Nino’s personal space. His darkroom is his safe haven, an area where his unfiltered thoughts, aspirations, and visions blend together until they coalesce into something coherent in the form of prints. If he were a writer, it would have been his journal of failure and minimal success.  
  
If Matsumoto was lying about Aiba not knowing, it doesn’t show it. Aiba is the same during the shoot, smiling when Nino’s not taking a photo and turning professional once Nino is positioned behind the camera. In the days that passed, Nino has been able to witness the different aspects of Aiba’s personality: his spontaneity, optimism, openness, confidence. He wants to capture them all and keep them in his darkroom for weeks.  
  
“You’re distracted,” Aiba says, hours into the shoot.  
  
Nino’s surprise is well-obscured by his camera. “Is my...lack of attention distracting you?”  
  
Aiba laughs—a predictable reaction. “Not me. You.”  
  
“Do you have something you want to say about the photos I’m taking?”  
  
“They’re good, I’ve said that. That’s not what I meant.”  
  
Nino doesn’t lower his camera, afraid that Aiba might consider it as a victory. Somewhere behind him is Matsumoto, hearing all of this, but not once does Nino see Aiba throw Matsumoto’s direction a glance. Aiba’s focus is entirely on Nino.  
  
And Aiba was right. Nino didn’t notice because he’s distracted.  
  
“What are you looking for whenever you press that shutter, Nino?” Aiba asks, expression openly curious.  
  
Matsumoto asked the same thing. They all did. And they all will.  
  
“It’s not about looking,” Nino says. It’s the truth. “It’s about what I’m trying to show.”  
  
“According to your standards or theirs?” There’s a thoughtful lilt to Aiba’s question.  
  
“Theirs. I’m trying to impress them,” Nino says. “I need this job. A senior photographer for a top magazine will help me sustain my cost of living in the next five to ten years.”  
  
Aiba smiles. It’s distracting and he’s done it; Nino’s full attention is  _on_  him now. “I didn’t think you’d be someone who’d allow yourself to be led by somebody else’s standards.”  
  
That strikes a nerve, and Nino’s fingers itch for a cigarette.  
  
“I know how to be a team player,” he says anyway. “We were part of the same baseball team. You know this.”  
  
“I do. It’s just that I always thought you worked better when you weren’t a follower.”  
  
“I tried that route already, Aiba-san.” This time, Nino doesn’t hide behind his camera. “You saw it on your first day here. My photos of Berlin.”  
  
“They’re amazing.”  
  
“Or so you say,” Nino tells him. “You’re one of the very few who thinks they are. They’re good for display in photo frames at a department store. They’re not even good enough for postcards.” Nino remembers the failure, the reassuring hand on his shoulder that belonged to Sho. “You don’t make money in this field unless you’re particularly talented.”  
  
“But you are,” Aiba insists. Nino has to look away from the glint in his eyes.  
  
“I can see things I know I want to put in a photograph,” Nino says. “What I seem to lack is the ability to show them as I see them. Do you want to know what their problem was with my photos from Berlin? ‘They’re too generic,’ one of them said. The other told me, ‘they lack individuality.’ the most consistent comment was ‘they’re good, but not enough.’”  
  
Aiba is merely watching him now.  
  
“So you see, I tried to make this world accommodate me. And when it wouldn’t, I tried a different approach.” He resumes his position behind the camera, focusing on the strong curve of Aiba’s jaw. “I’m still trying.”  
  
He sees Aiba nod. “You are,” Aiba acknowledges. Nino watches his gaze move from the camera to where Matsumoto must be, standing a few paces away behind Nino. The witness to the entire exchange.  
  
“But not enough,” Matsumoto says.  
  
Nino turns to him, abandoning his camera.  
  
“You don’t know,” Nino says. He’s calm, which is how he always feels whenever he’s on the cusp of anger. It’s almost soothing. “You don’t know anything.”  
  
Drawing in a breath, Nino shuts his eyes.  
  
“You’re dismissed,” he says, every syllable echoing in the room. “We’ll resume tomorrow.”  
  
\--  
  
Nino smokes in the main office despite knowing Sho hates it. Aiba and Matsumoto have left already, and Nino has his legs resting on the surface of Sho’s desk as Sho gives him disapproving looks behind all the smoke.  
  
“The papers are going to reek of nicotine,” Sho says.  
  
Nino waves his hand and says nothing.  
  
Sho leans against his desk and crosses his arms. He studies Nino for a couple of seconds.  
  
“Satoshi-kun told me.”  
  
“Of course he did.”  
  
“Really, in the backroom?”  
  
Nino blows a puff in Sho’s direction. “Of course that’s the part you latched on.”  
  
Sho’s waving his hands in the air as if it can help him get rid of the smoke. “I just find it curious.”  
  
“That what? Your ex has a thing for semi-public sex?”  
  
To Nino’s surprise, Sho says, “Yes.” It makes him stare at Sho’s face. “Now I don’t talk about my exes because I don’t kiss and tell…”  
  
“Bullshit,” Nino says immediately. “You started this, and you’re going to finish it.”  
  
“I will if you let me speak?” Sho levels him with a look. Nino doesn’t utter a word. “Thank you. As I was saying, he wasn’t so...what’s the word—spontaneous before. Daring, yes. Adventurous, yes. He likes a sense of thrill. Excitement gets him off, so I’m not really surprised. But I always thought he was so private.”  
  
“If he was, I wouldn’t have seen what I saw,” Nino says. “And I disagree about being spontaneous. It’s more like…” He pauses, remembering Matsumoto’s words. “A calculated risk.”  
  
Sho laughs, utterly delighted. He seems to have forgotten about his hatred for Nino smoking where they have most of the paperwork. “Yeah, he’d say that. So? What are you going to do?”  
  
“I’m not going to fuck them in my studio, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
  
“Unless you’re shooting sex tapes without my knowledge, that wasn’t what I was asking. Besides, I’ve been your friend for years, Nino, but you have to spare me from the horror of your orgasm face.”  
  
The words sound too much like Ohno’s. “You’re not really helping.”  
  
Sho regards him seriously. “I think you can do whatever you want.”  
  
“I always do whatever I want,” Nino points out.  
  
Sho smiles knowingly. “Then go do that. And if it turns out to be something you want to have in the long run, that’s when you think about it.”  
  
“I dismissed them today,” Nino says. “When they asked about the Berlin photos. Matsumoto told me I wasn’t trying hard enough.”  
  
“He can be pushy,” Sho acknowledges. “But I don’t think he meant harm.”  
  
“He doesn’t know anything. He talked as if he knew it, understood it. But he didn’t.”  
  
“Did he offend you?”  
  
Nino considers the question. “No.”  
  
“But it angered you?”  
  
“Yes.” He looks at Sho and stubs his cigarette in the ashtray. For all of Sho’s talk, there’s always an ashtray on his desk for Nino. “Yes it did, and you know why.”  
  
They both do. It angered Nino not because Matsumoto was overstepping his boundaries. If Nino is pissed about the intrusion of his privacy, he’d be angry when Matsumoto entered the darkroom hours ago. But he wasn’t.  
  
He’s angry because Matsumoto called out a truth. It’s the first time he took liberties, and he strikes Nino where Nino can’t fight back, where he has no immunity.  
  
“He wouldn’t have said it if Aiba-chan didn’t open it up,” Sho says.  
  
It’s Nino’s turn to study Sho’s face, realization sinking in.  
  
“I’m not blind,” is all Sho says.  
  
“Am I the only one then?” Nino asks plainly, seriously. The next words are heavy on his tongue. “I don’t know what I want. I need the job. I want to take photos. I want to prove people wrong. But I don’t know how.”  
  
I want you both, Matsumoto said, once. The simplicity and rawness of it makes Nino envious. He’ll never be that open.  
  
“I’ve always been on your side, Nino,” Sho says. Nino can make nothing out of his tone. “And I’ll always be. Do whatever you need to do.”  
  
Nino takes a deep breath. “I need that job. But I don’t want it. It’s not what I want.”  
  
“Okay,” Sho says, surprisingly agreeable despite all the hard work that’ll be put to waste.  
  
“You’re not angry?” Nino asks, wary.  
  
“Oh I’m a little pissed, all right,” Sho says, grinning. “After all the people I talked to and all those phone calls.” He sighs. “But okay. This is your life. Do whatever you want.”  
  
Nino makes a mental note to send a crate of ark shell to Sho’s apartment when he can.  
  
“You’re really not angry?” Nino’s partially unconvinced, still.  
  
“Satoshi-kun owes me now,” Sho says, and Nino groans. “He was betting you’d fuck them first for you to realize things, and I told him you wouldn’t be swayed by anyone’s dick—or dicks, whatever—and now he owes me.”  
  
“I’m touched that you have such complete faith in me. Was your confidence partly because you already slept with one of them?” Nino asks.  
  
Sho hums. “I’m not telling you how that was like. He was still lanky back then, anyway.”  
  
“I wasn’t even asking,” Nino says, voice flat.  
  
\--  
  
Nino waits in the dressing room the following day. He asked Sho to come in around lunch, and Sho agreed but not without leering at him and laughing. Nino threatened to fire him. Again.  
  
Aiba’s baseball cap is the first thing that comes into view, and Nino suppresses his laughter when Aiba steps back in surprise at the sight of him. Nino didn’t turn on any of the lights, instead hanging around in the dark, and it paid off.  
  
“Nino, don’t do that,” Aiba says, and Nino blinks at him. “We watched this scary documentary last night, you know? I thought you were the axe murderer’s ghost.”  
  
“Right, because I totally would have an axe in my studio,” Nino says.  
  
Looking past Aiba’s shoulders reveals Matsumoto, who blinks at Nino blearily behind his oversized glasses.  
  
“We need to talk,” Nino says. He’s perched on the dresser, a few inches away from where Matsumoto once was that time Nino saw them.  
  
Aiba removes his hat and lowers his bag, taking a seat on one of the stools. He musses his hair, and Nino wishes he’d quit it. “Okay,” Aiba says, smiling a bit. “Matsujun isn’t much of a talker in the mornings, though. He’s weak at this time of the hour.”  
  
“Is that why I caught you here before?” Nino asks.  
  
“No,” Matsumoto says. His ugly fedora is gone, and he’s shooting Aiba this disapproving look as he leans against the door. The backroom isn’t that spacious, but they’re not huddled so close together that they’re about to share stories by a campfire.  
  
Aiba’s smile doesn’t disappear. “You caught us because we wanted you to.”  
  
“I figured that,” Nino says. “When?”  
  
“When what?” Aiba asks, just as Matsumoto says, “The entire time.”  
  
Aiba faces Matsumoto. “What are you guys talking about?”  
  
“He’s asking when did we know,” Matsumoto says. “Aren’t you?”  
  
“The entire time, really?” Nino asks back, disbelieving.  
  
A ghost of a smile appears on Matsumoto’s face. “I know how people look when they’re attracted to Masaki.”  
  
Nino rolls his eyes. “Sometimes, I can’t believe Sho-chan dated  _you_.”  
  
“That was a different person,” Matsumoto says.  
  
At that, Nino laughs. He turns to Aiba. “How do you deal with him?”  
  
“He’s not like this all the time,” Aiba says with confidence. “If you know what to do.”  
  
“I know what I want to do,” Nino says. He doesn’t miss the answering smile the pair has for him.  
  
He hears the lock of the door being turned. “Is Sho-chan coming in late?” Aiba asks conversationally. He might as well have asked about today’s date with that tone.  
  
“He is,” Nino says. “I don’t share your kink of being walked in by someone.”  
  
“For the record, Nino, that wasn’t my kink that time. And there’s a term for that,” Aiba says.  
  
Nino recalls his conversation with Ohno. “Yeah. Semi-public sex.”  
  
Aiba laughs. Matsumoto looks away and grumbles something under his breath.  
  
“No,” Aiba says. “Exhibitionism.” He’s looking at Nino now, his stare unwavering. “For all it looks on the outside, on the inside, Matsujun’s not really the one running the show all the time.”  
  
“Are you telling me you’re a generous partner?” Nino asks. He had to lick his lips; they feel too dry.  
  
“I’m saying I know what I want,” Aiba tells him. “You said you know yours, so tell us.”  
  
Nino exhales. “I want you both.” It’s surprisingly easier to say than he originally thought. But he can feel his face heating up, and he’s glad he’s perched on something stable.  
  
Aiba stands and approaches him, and Nino freezes, remembering. It’s just like that time, except it’s him who’s about to have Aiba between his legs and not Matsumoto. He draws in a breath and doesn’t look away; he can see Matsumoto watching them in his periphery.  
  
“I’m not going to do anything,” Aiba whispers since he’s close enough. “Not yet. You’ve seen me do things to Matsujun. You’ve seen him so out of control before.”  
  
“Yes,” Nino pants. Aiba’s too close. His cologne floods Nino’s senses, like he’s all over Nino despite keeping a few scant centimeters between them. Nino can’t look away from his eyes. Gone was the Aiba-chan who happily patted his back during those baseball matches. This is an Aiba he’s never met before, and he’s starting to see why Matsumoto had been so affected that time.  
  
“Do you want to see that again?” Aiba asks.  
  
“Masaki,” Matsumoto says.  
  
“I asked him,” Aiba says to Matsumoto.  
  
Nino can’t look to his right to check Matsumoto’s expression; Aiba’s gaze is pinning him in place. “Yes,” Nino breathes; a quiet admission. He wants to see what Aiba can do, can possibly do to him.  
  
Aiba’s lips quirk upwards, a tiny smile that makes heat pool in Nino’s groin. He feels like that junior high kid who had the hots for their team captain, the one who often daydreamed about getting blown by the bleachers or in the locker room after practice.  
  
“Come here,” Aiba says, a hand extended in Matsumoto’s direction. Nino thinks Matsumoto won’t take it, but after a couple of seconds, Matsumoto steps forward and takes Aiba’s outstretched hand.  
  
Aiba yanks him close, and Nino’s certain he didn’t imagine Matsumoto’s gasp.  
  
“Nino wants to watch,” Aiba says against Matsumoto’s jaw. “He wants to see you. You always wanted to be seen. Will you let him see you?”  
  
“Yes,” Matsumoto says, and he removes his glasses.  
  
Aiba turns to Nino. “Don’t move from that spot. I don’t want you to do anything but watch.”  
  
Nino manages a nod.  
  
If the first time Nino saw them had Aiba standing between Matsumoto’s legs, this time, Aiba stands behind Matsumoto. Given the guy’s bulk, Nino can’t see Aiba’s face much, but the skin contrast permits him to clearly observe what Aiba is about to do.  
  
It’s Aiba’s tanned fingers that slowly open Matsumoto’s shirt, unbuttoning it from the bottom, revealing planes of pale flesh and a toned body. Not that Matsumoto has given Nino any other impression, but Nino has always been a “to see is to believe” kind of person. And now he’s freely given the opportunity to see, and he doesn’t know where to look.  
  
Matsumoto has his eyes shut, and whatever Aiba’s whispering to him is obviously affecting him, making him putty and responsive in Aiba’s arms. It’s an arresting sight, to see Nino’s childhood friend Aiba-chan being this dominating man who has someone like Matsumoto so attuned to every word he utters.  
  
That kind of power only exists behind trust, and Nino is seeing it all unravel before him.  
  
He wonders if he’d be able to convey any of these in his photographs, preserve them for eternity.  
  
There’s something almost electric in the way Aiba and Matsumoto move, as if they’re dancing to a particular choreography they know by heart, the steps imprinted in their skin. A tug here, a press of lips, a light run of fingerpads in bony prominences. It’s almost like there’s music—a slow building beat that leaves a steady thrum in Nino and leaves him in anticipation.  
  
His fingers twitch. He wants to reach out, nothing different from a sculptor admiring his masterpiece. Aiba and Matsumoto are doing this because Nino wanted—wants to see. Because they want to be seen. It’s a little overwhelming to think about, that once Nino decided to declare things outright, things just fell into place on their own.  
  
There’s a gasp that escapes from Matsumoto’s lips when Aiba has his shirt opened and has his hands tracing fair skin. They’re both taller than Nino, and Nino’s fixated on that mark beside Matsumoto’s left nipple. All the magazines that had the man posing half-naked and in jeans photoshopped that mark out.  
  
Nino lifts his gaze and finds Aiba looking at him.  
  
“Nino’s looking at you,” Aiba says, lips brushing against Matsumoto’s ear. “Jun, open your eyes.”  
  
Matsumoto does, and the flutter of his eyelashes combined with the light flush on his face is something Nino’s camera hasn’t captured yet despite weeks into their arrangement. Nino thinks no photo can do it justice—this creation of Aiba’s that’s for Nino’s eyes alone.  
  
He’s been told not to move, but he’s also been given permission to stay and see it all unveiled before him.  
  
He feels privileged rather than left out.  
  
Matsumoto’s eyes are on Nino as Aiba’s hands trace parts of his body with obvious familiarity. He remains upright, caged and supported by Aiba’s arms, hands immobile at his sides. He’s watching Nino as Nino watches them, and Nino wants to know.  
  
“Can you see?” he asks. See what you can do, what you’ve done, to me.  
  
“Everything,” Matsumoto says, ending in a sigh. He sinks further into Aiba’s hold, and a faint rustle is all Nino hears as the shirt falls away.  
  
Aiba grows more daring with more skin bared before him. He doesn’t kiss, instead runs his teeth over Matsumoto’s shoulder lightly before adding a bit of force. A sudden prick that leaves Matsumoto gasping, mouth parting.  
  
“Jun, open your eyes,” Aiba says again, and Matsumoto does.  
  
To see him so pliant and obedient because he chooses to be makes Nino burn for the both of them. He wants to do more than just watch, but Aiba told him not to.  
  
He only gets what they’re willing to give him.  
  
Nino wonders who among the three of them is really in control in this situation.  
  
He hears a zipper, and he makes no pretense of what he’s doing. He watches as Aiba’s hand slips inside, the subsequent reaction it brings forth in Matsumoto: the full body shudder, the spread of red across his cheeks down to his neck, the fluttering of eyelids.  
  
“Look at Nino,” he hears Aiba say, and Matsumoto does.  
  
It’s heady and magnetic. His eyes that Nino often found to be too brown are nearly black now, the pleasure undeniable in his expression. Nino can feel himself stir, and he shifts to make himself comfortable in his jeans. It doesn’t work.  
  
“Nino,” Aiba says next, and Nino looks at him, “what do you want to do?”  
  
The words feel caught up in his throat, clogged. He swallows to get them out, and he sees Matsumoto smile at the barest hints of the stutter he’s unable to suppress: “Let me.”  
  
“Let you what?” Aiba asks. It’s not condescending or impatient, merely curious.  
  
Nino can’t formulate what he wants. Matsumoto’s rapidly falling apart in Aiba’s hands, weight sagging against Aiba’s, breaths coming in a rush. His chest is heaving, and Nino watches Aiba lick a swipe over Matsumoto’s pulse.  
  
“He won’t last, Nino,” Aiba says. “Make up your mind.”  
  
“What would you have me do?” Nino asks.  
  
“Nothing you don’t want,” Aiba says immediately.  
  
“Let me come closer,” Nino says. Across from him, Matsumoto is barely able to keep it together. Aiba’s hand between his legs is relentless, and when Matsumoto focuses on Nino again, he lets out this moan that Nino knows is for him.  
  
“Come,” Aiba says, and Nino doesn’t know if it’s for him or for the man Aiba’s currently undoing, or for the both of them.  
  
He doesn’t care.  
  
His strides are quick; he’s in front of Matsumoto in moments. This close, his and Aiba’s combined bodies dwarf Nino, but he’s not intimidated. He’s in Matsumoto’s space, and every exhale fans his face, warms his skin.  
  
He wants to do more.  
  
Looking at Matsumoto is like appraising a challenge or an invitation, depending on your intentions. His eyes are daring Nino to do something—anything, and he’s seconds away from it, Nino can tell.  
  
Nino does what he can only think of: he wraps his hand over Aiba’s, squeezes, and the two of them move together.  
  
Matsumoto’s eyes widen, and Nino can feel him stop then let go, warmth coating his fingers and Aiba’s. They don’t stop even as Matsumoto trembles, his weight resting full on Aiba now.  
  
Behind Matsumoto, Nino can hear Aiba soothe him with words, praises. There’s nothing but bliss in Matsumoto’s face, and when Aiba ceases movement, Nino leaves his hand resting on top of Aiba’s and doesn’t withdraw.  
  
“Is there something you want, Jun?” Aiba asks.  
  
Matsumoto nods slowly, still within the haze of his high. Nino can’t blame him; Matsumoto got what he wanted—him and Aiba, together.  
  
It’s the slightest head tilt that serves as an indication, and Nino doesn’t hesitate.  
  
He kisses Matsumoto and gets a pleased hum for a response that emboldens him to deepen it further. For someone who’s trapped in an orgasmic rush, Matsumoto is a lethargic, lazy kisser, but it’s easy for Nino to get pulled in by the moment.  
  
They break apart when Nino feels fingers on his jaw, a forceful grip that turns his face in the other direction. His pulse is rabbit-fast when he sees it’s Aiba, and it’s the only warning he gets before Aiba kisses him.  
  
At that, Nino can feel the junior high kid inside him lose it. He responds too eagerly, one hand coming up to cup Aiba’s nape and have him closer. Aiba kisses him like he’s wanted to for a long time, and Nino nearly melts. He’s grateful there’s another person between them, lest he pulls Aiba closer and betrays how much he’s wanted this.  
  
It’s Aiba who pulls away, giving Nino that smile that tells Nino there’s nothing wrong about any of this.  
  
“I may have let Matsujun kiss you first, but I’m not losing to him,” Aiba says. He attempts to wink and fails, but Nino’s stomach feels funny at the sight of it anyway.  
  
“He kissed me,” Matsumoto says, matter-of-factly. The stoic model seems to have returned.  
  
“Because you asked him to,” Aiba points out. “I think I hold the record for being the guy he’s wanted to kiss the most.”  
  
“Says who?” Matsumoto asks.  
  
Nino shakes his head, and just to appease them both, kisses them both at the corner of their mouths.  
  
“I do want more,” he admits, stepping back and retrieving that box of tissue on the dresser. “But we’re behind schedule.”  
  
“Will you shoot us nude?” Aiba asks. His dominating persona is gone, replaced by the Aiba-chan that always made Nino’s heart jump.  
  
Nino decides he likes both.  
  
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s just for me.”  
  
“Selfish,” Aiba says, laughing. Nino hands him the tissue box, and they all remain quiet for a few moments.  
  
“It’s Jun,” Matsumoto says suddenly. Nino faces him. “You’ve seen so much, done so much. It’s about time you ditch the formality, don’t you think?”  
  
Nino hums in consideration. “Maybe.”  
  
“You’re not sure?” Aiba asks.  
  
“I haven’t yet done everything I want to do,” Nino says.  
  
Aiba presses closer to him, lips resting on his ear. “We’ll see about that then.”  
  
“Next time,” Nino manages to say, unable to keep himself from shivering.  
  
Aiba pulls away, his eyes bright with promise.  
  
“Next time.”  
  
\--  
  
Nino changes tactics. He doesn’t take photos for the sake of being accepted by a fashion magazine. He tells Aiba and Jun what he wants to show, what he believes they can help him show.  
  
It’s with Jun he often exchanges ideas with. They’d have lengthy discussions under Aiba’s watchful eye, in the middle of Aiba’s generous takeouts. They discuss comfort levels in length, both in work and in private, and each time Nino lifts his camera, he feels he’d be able to take a better photo that day compared to yesterday.  
  
“I never asked,” Aiba says beside him when it’s Jun in front of his camera and tripod, “why you easily gave up on your desires of holding a photo exhibit.”  
  
“It doesn’t make money,” Nino says. He takes another shot and raises his fingers to gesture that he wants to redo it. “At least that’s what I’ve been told multiple times.”  
  
“They think it’d be too much of a gamble to go with you,” Aiba says matter-of-factly.  
  
“They think I’m a waste of money,” Nino agrees. “No need to prettify it. I know what they think. They think my portfolio isn’t enough.”  
  
“You didn’t have us then,” Aiba says.  
  
Nino faces him for a moment. “That sounds like something Jun-kun would say. I know you’re aware of how you look, but I never took you for someone overconfident, Aiba-san.”  
  
Aiba smiles. “You’ll see,” he says, which doesn’t make sense to Nino at all.  
  
He turns back to his camera and takes a shot.  
  
\--  
  
Two weeks later, he shows Sho the photos he selected from his camera roll. He drops the prints on Sho’s desk and lights a cigarette, and when Sho makes a face at him, he blows the first puff in Sho’s direction.  
  
Sho fake-coughs. “Rude,” he says, but he picks up Nino’s photos anyway and examines them with narrowed eyes.  
  
Nino waits. He focuses on the way the tip of his cigarette blooms bright orange and imagines hearing the paper sizzle as it burns with each long drag. If Sho notices he’s smoking to conceal his nervousness, Sho makes no indication of it. He’s merely flipping through the photos of Aiba and Jun with an unchanging expression.  
  
Until he reaches  _that_  one.  
  
Sho stops, and Nino hides his satisfied smile behind his fingers still trapping a cigarette between them. He can see that Sho’s impressed—there’s a tiny furrow between his unruly eyebrows.  
  
He watches as Sho sets that photo aside and proceeds with the rest. Sho segregates the shots in a methodical manner: there’s no abundance of either model that would hint at a preference. He’s simply judging Nino’s work as he always has.  
  
When Sho’s done, he puts one pile face down on the table, and Nino knows those are the ones that didn’t make it. Nino observes as the other pile gets laid out before him like a new deal in a card game.  
  
“This is the first one that made me stop,” Sho says, pushing forward a photo of Aiba and Jun together. They’re half-naked in the shot, not looking at each other but touching. It’s the product of Nino’s desire to show trust in a photo.  
  
“I noticed,” Nino says.  
  
“I’m not going to ask how you managed to achieve this; that’s not what made me stop,” Sho tells him. “It’s how this—and almost each photo after it—reminds me of the ones you took in Berlin, back when you were—”  
  
“Into it?” Nino supplies.  
  
“I was going to say passionate.”  
  
Nino takes another long drag. “Do you think I lost it at one point? The passion?”  
  
“Yes,” Sho says, unfailingly honest. Nino appreciates that about him. “I stuck with you because I know how talented you are. But talent can only do so much, and you know that. It’s always been your passion that kept this going, and when you decided you were content with applying for a senior photographer job, I saw you lose it then.”  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything? You had to do most of the work, calling up agencies and asking for schedules and negotiating fees.”  
  
“I wanted you to figure that out for yourself,” Sho says with a tiny smile. “I’m only your assistant, Nino. I go where you go; that’s how it is.”  
  
Nino exhales a thick puff, but he doesn’t direct it to Sho’s person. “Do you think I regained it?”  
  
“Probably,” Sho says. He taps on a photo of Aiba laughing, his eyes turned into slits and his grin so wide it makes Nino’s jaw hurt in Aiba’s stead each time he looks at it. It’s Nino’s attempt of trapping independence in a photo. “This one tells me you were sporting the same expression as you took it.”  
  
Nino averts his eyes as an answer.  
  
“Did it do you good? Sleeping with them?” Sho asks.  
  
“I haven’t,” Nino says, catching himself before he reveals more. He believes Sho’s grinning somewhere behind him. “But we reached an understanding, and every photo you laid out before me is a product of that.”  
  
“An understanding.” The teasing tone surfaces, and Nino rolls his eyes.  
  
“Are you going to ask about my sex life or are you going to continue giving critique to my work?”  
  
Sho lays out the rest of the photos in the stack. “You never really took portraits of people before, but combined with the shots you took in Berlin as well as with your other best shots, it’s enough.”  
  
“For you to make the calls?” Nino asks.  
  
“For me to take another bet,” Sho says. “On you.”  
  
That wins an earnest smile from Nino. Sho has always been one of the few people who believed in him apart from his mother and sister. It was Sho who helped Nino make a pitch to investors back then. Sho was so convinced of Nino’s skill that they both believed it was enough for other people to take a risk with Nino, too.  
  
“Do you think it’ll work this time?” Nino asks quietly.  
  
“I don’t know,” Sho says. He rearranges the photos in a neat stack once more. “But I’ll find out soon.”  
  
Sho moves to make calls, and when he lifts his gaze as if to question why Nino still lingers around his desk, it’s when Nino mouths a simple “thank you.”  
  
Sho just waves it off, and Nino leaves him alone.  
  
\--  
  
It takes a week and a half. Nino is in Aiba’s bed with both Aiba and Jun, the three of them recovering from what felt like a test of athleticism to Nino considering Aiba’s determination and Jun’s stamina. He came twice; one while Aiba was inside him (junior high Ninomiya would have cried out of joy), the second thanks to Jun’s gifted mouth. He’s lingering in Aiba’s bed with no intention to move when Jun gets an angry phone call from Sho because Nino put his phone on silent and couldn’t answer the damn thing.  
  
Nino thinks he can’t even locate where his phone is. He doesn’t remember.  
  
“I can’t really understand what you’re saying, Sho-kun,” Jun pants, not caring if it’s evident what he just took part in. “If you’d talk more slowly, maybe you’d start making sense.”  
  
Jun remains silent for the next moments, and Nino is trying not to squirm at the ticklish brush of Aiba’s fingers on his arm. He slaps Aiba’s hand lightly, but Aiba just laughs. What could possibly be funny to him, Nino doesn’t know.  
  
Then Jun starts laughing softly too, and Nino sits up, giving him a suspicious look.  
  
“When did you figure it out?” Jun asks Sho, and he laughs again at the answer. He meets Nino’s gaze and only warns at the corner of his mouth, “I’m putting you on loudspeaker,” before Nino can hear the tell-tale sounds of Sho’s cries of his name.  
  
“I’m here,” Nino says. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Why weren’t you answering your phone?” Sho demands from the device. “Wait, don’t answer that.” Nino hears him sigh. “We have one. And I’ve just received an email asking if they can contact me tomorrow morning, so if that goes well, that’s two.”  
  
Nino blinks. “Two what?” But he has a feeling that he knows what Sho is talking about.  
  
“Sponsors, Ninomiya,” Sho says, only sounding mildly annoyed. “I’ve forwarded your photos to what appears to be the right people, but if you can get those two people you’re with to talk, I’m sure they have a hand or two in it, too.”  
  
Nino looks questioningly at both Aiba and Jun, and Aiba is already pointing at Jun.  
  
“I’m not your guy,” Aiba says with a lazy, satisfied smile. The sheen of sweat is yet to disappear from his hairline, and Nino wants to taste him. It won’t be the first time he entertained that line of thought. “I’m not the one with those kinds of connections. My best friend is just a Disneyland fan.”  
  
The last bit is unnecessary in Nino’s opinion, but he faces Jun and gives him a look that he better start talking.  
  
Jun waves his hand nonchalantly. “Talked to some friends. Masaki vouched for you, though. Don’t believe what he says. He’s as guilty as I am.”  
  
“What did you do?” Nino asks. It’s best to be blunt if they’re going to be as vague as this. “Tell me.”  
  
“I honestly think Matsumoto-kun is largely responsible,” Sho says from the phone, cutting through the impending discussion. “Anyway, that’s it, Nino. You’re getting an exhibit. I think they want to meet you sometime next week, so it’s time to unearth that old suit of yours from your closet of moth-eaten shirts.”  
  
“You’ve got room to talk,” Nino says, “when your closet is more like a military armory.”  
  
“I’m sorry Nino, you’ve gone terribly choppy,” Sho says, obviously lying. It makes Aiba laugh and Jun snort. “I’ll be cutting now lest I hear things I’d rather not.”  
  
“You liked hearing me once,” Jun teases, and Nino laughs at hearing Sho grunt in annoyance.  
  
“Things of the past, Matsumoto,” Sho says. “Nino, whenever you’re able, call me or shoot me a text so we can discuss.”  
  
The call ends, and Jun tosses his phone back on the nightstand. Nino crosses his arms and waits until Jun meets his gaze.  
  
Jun sighs. “My friend has this friend. We had a chat. But Masaki was there too, and we may have tried to sell your skills to the right people.”  
  
“That sounds like trafficking,” Nino says. It wins him another one of Aiba’s delighted laughs, making Jun laugh too. “No, seriously? When?”  
  
“Sho-chan is so loud when he fusses, you know?” Aiba says, rolling onto his stomach and resting his weight on his forearms. “He keeps grumbling stuff under his breath as if we can’t hear him.”  
  
Nino snorts. “Yeah, he does that. Answer the question.”  
  
Aiba crawls to settle his head in Nino’s lap, and Nino can’t complain since he enjoys the added weight. “Talked to him to just have a look at your stuff. Luckily for us, Sho-chan already contacted this friend of Matsujun’s friend.”  
  
“So we just did a bit of pushing,” Jun says. “Nothing major.”  
  
Nothing major, yeah right. Nino can’t believe them. Then he blinks back, remembering.  
  
You didn’t have us then.  
  
He snorts in amusement, eventually throwing his head back in laughter. They had him. And from the looks of it, they know exactly what’s currently hilarious for Nino, so they don’t bother to ask at all.  
  
Nino settles between Jun and Aiba, unable to keep a happy smile from his face. He feels as close to what’s real: a step closer to the dream, like he’s floating and can’t come down.  
  
He’s not sure he wants to.  
  
“Roll over,” he tells Aiba, who’s still on his stomach with his weight on his elbows.  
  
“Why?” Aiba asks, expression turning suggestive, which is convenient for Nino at present.  
  
“I have the sudden urge to suck you both off,” Nino says, and that gets Aiba rolling onto his back in a matter of seconds.  
  
Jun laughs, but Nino makes sure he and Aiba can’t do that in the following minutes.  
  
\--  
  
To Ohno’s credit, despite being a constant asshole in Nino’s life, he’s there on the first night of Nino’s photo exhibit. Ohno’s probably just there to support Sho because Ohno doesn’t know subtlety, but Nino appreciates him leaving his izakaya for once and actually showing up when he’s invited.  
  
Aiba and Jun are yet to arrive, and Nino already dreads the inevitable meeting.  
  
But since Sho’s preoccupied with other guests and patrons (mostly from Jun and Aiba’s circle of friends and acquaintances), it’s Nino who gives Ohno the tour.  
  
“You’re not dressed as fancy as I thought you’d be,” Ohno says, giving Nino a scan from head to foot and back up.  
  
Nino’s wearing clothes handpicked by his team of personal stylists, namely Aiba and Jun. He’s offended on their behalf, but decides to forego the matter because Ohno will always be Ohno.  
  
“Tell that to the guys who picked these clothes out for me when they arrive,” Nino says.  
  
They stop at the center of the gallery, in front of a massive frame that showcases Nino’s main attraction. The one photo he insisted on having as his centerpiece.  
  
Ohno eyes it for almost a minute, taking in the details. He actually bothers himself with leaning forward to read the description under it—impressing Nino.  
  
Then Ohno straightens, facing Nino with a thoughtful, curious look.  
  
“That description reads like something Sho-kun wrote,” Ohno says, tilting his head towards the piece.  
  
Nino smiles. “That’s creepy, the way you can just tell.”  
  
“What’s this photo for you?” Ohno asks.  
  
Nino looks at the photo. It’s of three hands in black and white, splayed on top of the other—his in between Jun and Aiba’s bigger ones. It’s not done artistically except for the lighting that Jun insisted on in the time Nino was planning the shot, but it draws attention, definitely. Whatever crowd Nino gathered on his first night stops by this photo and takes it in.  
  
“A beginning,” Nino says in reply.  
  
He finds himself believing it.

**Author's Note:**

> There are a couple of references in this story, but unfortunately, I only remember my favorite, which is the Kagi no Kakatta Heya one. Episode four of the drama had a bunch of tarantulas that sent me crying, and I still haven't forgiven Ohno for not issuing a warning.


End file.
